


Where no flesh decks the bones

by Blanquette



Category: Monsta X (Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Books, Fluffy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Light Angst, M/M, Middle Ages, One Shot, Strangers to Lovers, Witches, some light murdering but they deserved it, wild inaccuracies about the middle ages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-23 00:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17070353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blanquette/pseuds/Blanquette
Summary: Kihyun is doomed to burn at the stake. Yoongi will have none of it.





	Where no flesh decks the bones

**Author's Note:**

> So Halloween is over but here, have some goddamn witches. I'll get to Christmas eventually.

**1.**

He can still hear them, yelling over the crackling of the rising fire. The kindling took to the flames like an old friend and Kihyun finally knows what countless others felt, rope wound too tightly around his neck, flaying the skin of his wrists bound to the stake. The flames have yet to reach him but the smoke is almost worse, thick clouds coating his lungs and scraping his throat. He hopes this will be what kills him, smoke filling his lungs until no breaths can find a way; a gift of a kinder end.

Yet the flames are raising, licking at his feet; he doesn’t want to give his torturers the satisfaction of yelling but the pain is searing, skin blistering and peeling back from his shins and he wonders how much he can withstand, if he will black out, maybe, but there is no clemency to be had and the tears that spill from his eyes turn to steam before reaching the ground.

He has seen burnt bodies, deformed and blackened, lips peeled back from cracked teeth, and he wonders what he will look like in death, if the fire will burn until there is only ashes or if they will leave his body exposed on the pyre as a warning to others.

And then, he ceases to wonder as a scream is ripped from his throat by a pain like no other, fire flaring and engulfing his body whole.

But there is something, amongst the flames.

Something dark and slithering.

A moving shape, with a cold voice cutting through the roars of the fire.

“You’re not even a witch.”

A cool breath fanning over his burning skin, and something that touches him, cold and clammy as it winds around his wrists.

“It’s gonna be okay, for you. Not for them.”

There’s screaming, but it doesn’t come from him. And he can breathe, he can breathe and his tears fall on his skin and the fire burns in a circle around him, his pyre the only island in a sea of flames. He hears a laugh, and the flames explode outwards, a blaze that slithers like a snake and catches the mob that came to see him burn.

“They should know what it feels like.”

The voice is still there, laughing, but he can feel the hatred and the anger underneath, and Kihyun watches as an inferno falls on his tormenters, he watches and he feels nothing, nothing for the bodies writhing in agony, for the cries and the pain he sees inflicted before him. They should know what it feels like; and he almost relishes at the smell of burnt flesh until he recognizes that this hatred is not his own.

And then he is falling forward, nothing tying him to the stake anymore, he’s falling and something catches him, something gently cradling his wounded body, something cold and clammy. The pain slowly recedes as his limbs grow heavy; the voice is still whispering in his ear, words he cannot understand but they are soothing, and so he lets himself drift into pleasing darkness.

 

**2.**

When he wakes the pain is there to welcome him. But it is subdued, a dull throbbing; the fire turned to embers. Kihyun’s resting on a small bed pushed in the corner of a darkened room and when he looks down at himself under the covers his body is wound tightly in bandages, a strong herbal smell wafting from them. He finds that he cannot move so well, the simple gesture of lifting the cover sapping most of his strength; his arm falls limply on the mattress as he lets out a sigh. His throat feels raw, his lungs protesting with each breath, but he is alive, he is alive, no pile of ashes or burnt body, gaping orbits staring blindly up at a sun that will no longer rise for him.

“Is– is someone there?”

It seems impossible that anyone would hear him, weak as his voice is, but there’s clatter in a neighboring room, hurried footsteps approaching and the door banging open on a small man in a disheveled state. Kihyun blinks, gives up trying to sit up when pain shoots through his limbs. The man stares, dark hair falling in his eyes and lips slightly parted on words that won’t get out. Kihyun swallows hard, pushing past the pain to speak first.

“Where am I? Who are you?”

The man’s hand falls from the door handle and he takes a few hesitant steps inside the room, eyes darting as if he wasn’t supposed to be there, as if he was scared.

“I didn’t know what else to do so I took you home. My home. You’re in my home.”

His voice sounds young, soft and gentle as it is, and Kihyun strains to hear him.

“And who are you?”

“I took you from the pyre.”

“That doesn’t give me your name.”

The man tilts his head and there’s the hint of a smile on his pouty lips. He slicks his hair back, straightening his shoulders to appear taller, and when he speaks Kihyun finds that the assurance he puts in his words is all but feign, betraying an ingrained wariness.

“My name is Yoongi. I am a witch, and I took you from the pyre, and I killed the people who put you there and stayed to watch you burn.”

He looks almost defiant, standing like this, posturing as if daring Kihyun to say something hostile, or to cower in fear under his blankets. Kihyun shifts, trying to raise slightly, and the man’s hands twitch as if he wanted to help.

“I know not of any witches capable of such things.”

The man, Yoongi, stares at him and there’s something like wonder in his face when he speaks again.

“You are not scared.”

“I assume you wouldn’t have gone to such lengths if you meant to harm me.”

The smile is back, and the witch takes a few more steps inside the room. The light spilling from the corridor allows Kihyun to see his features more clearly, soft lines and gentle slopes, and Kihyun wonders how someone looking so young can have eyes so dark.

“Thank you, for saving me.”

“I am good with fire.”

“I noticed.”

Yoongi smiles, a real one, something unrestrained that brings its own kind of light to the man’s face. Kihyun wants to speak more, then, to know more, but he is tired, so very tired, so much pain and so much fear he has yet to erase. The witch must notice this as he suddenly turns fretful, taking a few steps back and forward again, looking at Kihyun as if he might break at any moment.

“I am less good with healing, but I did my best. You should rest, and the poultices will do their work.”

Kihyun nods, and Yoongi disappears through the door with promises of food and tea. The witch leaves the door open, allowing Kihyun to spot part of a corridor with wooden floors. The silence outside the walls is the only hint of where they might be – definitely not in a city, and Kihyun can already picture a small square house lost in the woods, the kind of house found in stories he was told as a child, where evil dwells, trapping unwary travelers and children lost at night.

But the danger never came from the dark, the danger came in broad daylight, knocking at his door dressed in priest robes, hiding behind faces he knew well, faces he recognized because he tended to them, with simple herbs and words of wisdom. He was dragged and imprisoned, poked and probed in darkened rooms, made to speak but not listened to, and he was tied to a stake on a pyre, branded an evil thing to be destroyed by the flames.

A clinking sound, slow footsteps, and Yoongi appearing at his door again, holding a small tray of tea and simple foods he put on the night table by Kihyun’s bed. The witch retreats right away, assuming his former position near the door as if he couldn’t bear being in too close quarters with his guest. He watches Kihyun’s every gesture with eager eyes, fretting; Kihyun starts wondering how long it has been, since the witch saw anyone, every move he makes seemingly a wonder to marvel at.

“What is this? It’s nice.”

Yoongi’s face lights up and the smile is back on his lips, something like pride radiating from him. Such a simple praise, and yet.

“It’s lavender tea, to have a good sleep. I put honey in it, too, because it tastes good.”

Kihyun nods, taking another sip of the warm liquid before the burnt skin of his arms starts to strain under its bandages. He puts the tea down with careful gestures, smiling up at the witch still watching him from the doorway.

“Thank you. My name is Kihyun, by the way. Yoo Kihyun. Can I ask, how did you know?”

The witch tilts his head, eyes darting to the corner of the room before settling on Kihyun’s face again.

“They came here, to get wood. To make the stake and the pyre. I heard them, scurrying about during the day. The forest doesn’t like it, and its spirits warned me, and I don’t like it either. So I came to save you, and to punish them.”

Punish, with fire and death, _they need to know what it feels like_ , and there was so much hatred behind these words. Kihyun is a healer, gentle hands giving life, babies delivered to the world and illnesses relieved, but he had wanted those men dead, he had wished for it as the flames licked at his feet. And then, the witch had come.

Kihyun looks at him, then, the witch, at his disheveled hair and too-big clothes, noticing for the first time that he walks barefoot. Small hands wringing and unsure eyes, dark, too dark, something swirling there not entirely of this world. Kihyun should be scared, he knows, this is the evil dwelling in the woods, the one he was warned of as a child, his mother forbidding him to go out after dark. The evil, standing there with eager eyes and tentative approaches, relishing in simple praises, shy as a child.

“Won’t they come for you, too?”

“If they do, they won’t find this place. It is sheltered.”

Kihyun nods, appraising. So much power in such a person.

“You should sleep, now. It is the best remedy now. Rest.”

There is something behind that last word, something warms that curls up on Kihyun’s chest like a cat, eyelids growing heavy and a sweet lethargy flowing in his limbs, numbing the pain nesting there. He has time to nod, once, before sinking in a dreamless sleep.

 

**3.**

The next few weeks are spent in and out of sleep, waking up with fresh bandages and simple food on the night table. The witch’s visits are rare, spent in simple conversation with Yoongi standing by the door, and Kihyun would become him closer if he knew which words to use. The witch seems content to watch from afar, furtive smiles and darting eyes. There is something that Kihyun recognizes, though, in the tentative questions and fleeting laughs, in the few steps taken forwards and back again; something of longing tinted of hesitation.

The pain recedes slowly but it does, and soon Kihyun can stand, walk a few steps that aren’t so tiring. Yoongi brings him a cane to help, something made of clear wood, carved with simple, almost naïve drawings of plants and woodlands animals that might not be entirely innocent. The house is his to explore, Yoongi tells him, and Kihyun limps through small corridors and narrow staircases, leaning on his cane.

He was right, he discovers. A square house lost in the woods, and there’s a wicker chair near a window that becomes his favorite place. The first floor is entirely open, kitchen, living room and working space into one big mess, cluttered and dusty, lint flying every time Kihyun takes a book from the shelves. He finds that he loves it. Yoongi is a soft presence, fleeting here and there, sometimes curled up with a book, sometimes up in his bedroom; quiet, always. The witch sleeps well into the late morning and Kihyun takes advantage of these moments of solitude to wander around the room, fingers fleeting over drying flowers and strange instruments.

He always stops at the bookcase, the soft light from early morning kissing the spines of countless volumes, some bound by leather, others simple sheets of parchment crudely sewn together. Most Kihyun cannot read yet, too many scholarly words he ignores the meaning of swimming before his eyes. But he loves them, the words, and he tries, pouring over thick volumes and scribbling notes in his childish script on loose sheets he finds in the drawer of his room’s little desk.

Often he finds words in his margins he didn’t put there, words or little drawings, some meant to explain, some meant to entertain. He loves them, too, loves the beauty he finds in round loops and straight lines. He uses more sheets to practice his own writing, and the sentences he builds soon find their own beauty, their own meaning; the conversations in the margins take on a new dimension, slow mornings spent in peaceful study and contemplation.  

When he hears the telltale creaks of the floorboards upstairs Kihyun lets go of his quill, more often than not leaving ink stains on his page. It’s okay, though, they will morph into strange animals or soft flowers with a few well-placed lines before the next morning, while Kihyun isn’t looking. Before the witch can make his appearance Kihyun is at the stove, cane resting against the table behind him; he took to cooking for the both of them, as a small thanks, something useful to do. He discovers quickly that the witch loves anything involving bread, and it becomes his specialty. Sometimes, in the margins of his notes, Kihyun will find drawings of eggs and toast, pots of marmalade or melting butter, small requests wedged between simple explanations of difficult words and anatomic sketches of everyday creatures.

It is strange, then, that the disaster should start at breakfast, over toast and apples.

“You should cut your hair.”

“What?”

Yoongi looks up from the toast he was busy slathering in jam, wide eyes on Kihyun who looks back with an amused smile.

“Your hair. It’s a mess. How can you even see anything through that fringe?”

“I like it that way.”

“I could cut it for you.”

Simple words that seem to send the witch into a spiral. He puts his toast down, staring at Kihyun with huge eyes, mouth slightly parted. Kihyun puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender, still amused.

“It was just a suggestion. You can also grow them out, if you wish.”

“I just. Would that make you happy?”

“Cutting your hair?”

Yoongi nods, and it is such a strange question to ask about such a topic. But maybe it would make him happy, now that Kihyun thinks about it. A small thanks, something useful to do. So he smiles wider, nodding his head.

“Yeah, it would.”

The witch swallows, looking down at the forgotten bread in his plate.

“All right. We can do that after breakfast, then.”

 

**4.**

Yoongi sits on a chair and he’s tense, head pulled into his shoulders as if Kihyun was about to deliver a blow.

“Don’t you have a mirror? Now that I think about it I didn’t see one in your house.”

“I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Mirrors show the truth.”

A strange answer, but Kihyun doesn’t dwell on it; Yoongi is a strange man after all. Instead he takes up the scissors the witch unearthed from an old drawer and sharpened on a wet stone, gently pushing Yoongi’s head forward as he starts with the back of his neck. The first touch of his fingers and Yoongi’s whole body locks, breath stuck in his lungs.

“You alright?”

“Y-Yeah, just, go on.”

“Okay.”

Kihyun shrugs, starting on his work with practiced gestures. The witch relaxes in a moment, closing his eyes as his muscles unwind. It’s on purpose that Kihyun gently runs his fingers through strands of messy hair, lightly scratching Yoongi’s scalp until a soft sigh escapes from the witch’s lips. Were he a cat he would purr, as Kihyun’s gentle fingers thread through silky locks. It takes a long time, too much time for a simple haircut, but then it never was one. By the time Kihyun is finished the witch is boneless, half asleep in his chair, and this question again, at the back of Kihyun’s mind, how long has it been? How long has it been, since anyone touched him, since anyone showed him any kindness.

“It looks great, I think.”

“Thank you. It does feel better.”

The witch looks even younger like this, soft fringe brushing his eyebrows, the lines of his neck bared.

“Good. We should do something about your clothes next.”

Yoongi looks down at himself with a small frown, smoothing over his shirt.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re way too big for you.”

“I still have hope I will grow into them.”

The quip does not warrant such laughter but Kihyun guffaws, the first trait of humor the witch ever made before him, and the smile appearing on Yoongi’s face is full of wonderment as he watches the other laughs.

“Was it that funny?”

“No, but coming from you it’s just… Ah, sorry, I’ll calm down.”

“It’s okay, it’s nice.”

And it is, Kihyun realizes as he sits down, his legs tiring after standing for so long. There’s fresh scarring on his calves and it will probably always be there, a grim reminder of darker times. But there’s still laughter to be had, bread to be shared with a strange witch conversing in the margins of crumpled paper. Yoongi is stepping beyond the threshold at last, and Kihyun likes what he finds, easy companionship and a carefulness that betrays deep empathy.

Later, though, something comes back to him, as he washes the plates used for dinner before Yoongi disappeared into the night, as he always does. A metal saucer sends him back a deformed reflection of himself and _mirrors show the truth_ , Yoongi had said. The words take on a much somber meaning then, as he stands alone in their messy kitchen, because which truth would the witch need to hide so well? The question stays and festers at the back of Kihyun’s mind, until it is all he can think about as Yoongi smiles and shares more of himself in the margins of his notes.

 

**5.**

It takes Kihyun quite some time to find the right object. A plate of shiny metal that he polishes with infinite patience until he’s left with a reflective surface almost as perfect as a mirror. It is quite strange, to see himself after so long. His hair grew out, he would need a haircut himself, but his cheeks are full and he looks well, he does, and maybe Yoongi’s secrets shouldn’t be so important.

But they are, and so instead of looking for new words and new sketches he climbs the few steps to the second floor, gripping the plate like a weapon. He never stepped in Yoongi’s room and he feels as if he’s encroaching on sacred grounds, and it is wrong, he knows, so wrong, but he needs to know, _mirrors show the truth_ , _mirrors show the truth_.

Yoongi looks peaceful in his sleep, vulnerable and open, and Kihyun almost feels bad, almost, but the polished plate is in his hands and it is too late now, too late to stop, he needs to know; and so he brings it to Yoongi’s face and looks at his reflection.

_burned flesh and_

_empty sockets_

_lips peeling back over cracked teeth_

_and death_

_death_

_death_

Kihyun didn’t mean to gasp this loudly, he didn’t mean to take a step back, tripping on his own feet and falling, dropping the plate, a ruckus that could only wake Yoongi. And the witch is looking at him, seated in his bed, a weary look of betrayal in his face that drives a knife through Kihyun’s heart.

“I’m–”

“You should leave.”

Yoongi isn’t looking at him anymore. He isn’t angry, and maybe this is what hurts the most, he isn’t angry but resigned, as if he knew this would happen and still had hoped it would not. So Kihyun gets up, taking a few steps towards the bed, towards the witch that still won’t look at him.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

A defeated sigh from Yoongi’s parted lips and he finally looks up at Kihyun, dark eyes full of sorrow and something else, something of the defiance he had on that first day, daring Kihyun to say something hurtful, to run, to abandon him, and this must have happened before, Kihyun thinks. He doesn’t run, then, he doesn’t, he sits down on the bed instead and Yoongi’s hand is warm when he takes it in his.

“What happened to you?”

Yoongi looks up from their entwined hands, eyes wide and lost, and Kihyun knows, somehow, but he needs to hear it. Yoongi gazes back down when his words feel too heavy, falling from his lips like stones.

“I was just… I liked taking walks in the woods at night, and I was a little weird, and…”

_twisting and screaming, flesh burning in the flames and the pain unbearable and death, death death encroaching and cracked lips parting on a last breath_

“…they needed someone to blame, for the illness, and it could only be me, you know, and…”

_a wish or a curse and the heart cannot bear it, the pain, the heart cannot bear it and it stops it stops and the darkness are cold cold cold but oh so soothing and you are dead, you are dead, no more fire and no more pain_

“…they took me from my home in the morning, it’s always in the morning, and I knew all of them, they were my friends and my neighbors but not anymore, not anymore…”

_but the wish has been granted, it has, and that’s how you make witches, tired souls sent back to burnt bodies_

“…I was 23 when I died and they left my body on the pyre…”

_empty sockets staring at a night sky lips peeled back on cracked teeth but the wish has been granted and the flesh is young again eyes shining with renewed light_

“…I was back, and I didn’t understand, but then I did, someone heard and someone had compassion, and so I made the night my home…”

_and somebody will pay for all that fear and all that suffering, you are the night, you are the night_

 “…and they should be the ones who are afraid, not people like us, people like you, and so at night I go out and people disappear from cells and pyres and that’s all I do, that’s all I do, I’m not a monster, I’m not.”

Kihyun remains silent, stunned, maybe, but the eyes that meet his are full of sorrows and he needs to say something, do something; but no words will serve and so he pulls the witch against his chest, a hug he hopes will convey enough.

“I know, I know you’re not.”

“But you’ve seen me, you’ve seen what I am.”

Yoongi’s warm, still full of sleep, and he smells of the night, of fire and rain, and Kihyun buries his face in his hair, blocking out the light.

“It’s okay, I have scars, too, it doesn’t matter. In the margins you’ve drawn animals and you taught me words, and I loved it. I love the mornings, I wait for you to wake and when the floorboards creak my heart skips a beat. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t need to know, it was enough.”

Yoongi stays silent, heavy against Kihyun’s body, so Kihyun waits, soft morning light turning brighter as the sun rises. A small shift, the witch slowly detaching himself from Kihyun but his hand stays, fingers entwined, and this is where he looks when he speaks again.

“I wanted to help. It is easier, through paper. I don’t have to look at you, and you don’t have to look at me.”

“You don’t want to look at me?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You will leave, and I don’t want to remember you too well.”

Something gives way in Kihyun’s chest, bursting through his ribs; pain and loneliness and something deeper, something too much like love for the broken thing on the bed, dark hair shining in the sun.

“I don’t… Why would I leave?”

Yoongi stays silent, staring at their hands, but he doesn’t need to talk. Kihyun remembers, he remembers the rage, the hate he had felt on the pyre as his tormenters were doomed to the death they had chose to give him. _I’m not a monster_ , Yoongi had said, yet people had burned, bodies twisted, arms raised to a god that wasn’t there to save them. There was only Yoongi, then, and Yoongi was fire and death.

“Why would you stay?”

Kihyun wets his lips, fingers drawing circles on Yoongi’s skin, and they had yet to touch for so long.

“Because, because of–”

_because of unknown words in leather-bound books and crudely sewn parchments, pots of jam and anatomic sketches in too-small margins, because of embarrassed conversations and tentative touches, creaking floorboards and a cane carved of wonders; because I have the night in my arms and it is gentle and kind_

Yoongi smiles a tired smile as Kihyun’s words falter on his lips, and his hand slips away, under the white covers of his bed. It’s okay, he seems to say, I’ll be alright.

“How long has it been?”

“What?”

“How long have you lived here, alone?”

Yoongi tilts his head, thoughtful, lines of unease slowly leaving his face.

“I don’t know. Years. I like it.”

“You do?”

“It’s quiet. I wander at night and when I slip in in the mornings the house welcomes me like it always does. I can sleep as much as I want and I’m not afraid, I haven’t been afraid in a long time. It is sad, sometimes, but it is okay, when I need company there is books to tell me stories, and I watch the animals in the woods and the meadows, and it is nice and peaceful.”

“Should I leave, then?”

A silence, Yoongi’s eyes falling to his lonely hands hiding under the covers.

“Yes. I think you should.”

Kihyun nods, slowly. Yoongi doesn’t look at him, as he gets up, and gently closes the bedroom’s door behind him.

He packs a few provisions. All of his notes, he leaves behind.

 

**6.**

Kihyun leaves and it is easy, to find a new place to stay. Villages in need of a healer aren’t rare. It is easy, with his gentle hands and kind eyes, it is easy to be liked. But he is wary, this time, wary of any whisper, any look askew; it is easy but there’s fear at the back of his mind, always, and he is ready to run.

It is easy but something’s missing, each of his breaths painting regrets and loss in the wintery air. He would go back if he could, but he knows it is pointless; the witch does not wish to be found. Days shorten as the moon makes earth its kingdom and it gets harder, to forget. Kihyun once held the night and he betrayed it, and he was cast out, and he left too much of himself behind to ever feel at peace again, too much in scattered notes and half-read books.

He often changes homes, never staying long enough for suspicions to settle. Kihyun understands better, now, what the witch meant; he misses a place of his own where he can just be, sleep as much as he wants, a place where he doesn’t have to be afraid. Fear is something he bears with him now, in the world of men, and he soon finds that he is weary, lassitude settling in the marrow of his bones. But he’s got to go on, and he does, from house to house through the night, leaning on a cane carved of wonders.

 

**(7.**

In the woods the house still stands, but it is wanting. Yoongi runs cold fingers over the spines of unread books, sits in the wicker chair by the window to stare at scattered notes belonging to another time. He tried destroying them, ran fire over their pages multiple times, but it never took, flames waning before they touched the faded ink.

It is quiet. He wanders at night and when he slips in in the mornings the house welcomes him like it always did. He can sleep as much as he wants and he isn’t afraid, hasn’t been in a long time. Yet it is sad, sometimes, and the company he finds in books isn’t enough anymore, and the animals he watches in the meadows remind him too much of drawings he used to put in narrow margins, just to watch dark eyes lighten with delight when they were found.

Something coils like a snake around his rib cage, choking him in it rings. Something cold and clammy, and he knows the shape of the hole under his heart.)

 

**8.**

There’s a drawing of a two-headed bird in the margin of a recipe for a poultice Kihyun doesn’t remember putting there. He stares, for a long time, and he is sure now, that it isn’t his hand that drew it. It could be anyone, he thinks, children from the village sneaking in his house when he is out gathering herbs, a patient bored of waiting while he works on medicine, anyone, really. He does not let himself hope, filing away the loose sheet in a drawer he keeps closed.

But it happens again, three more days and words crossed out in his anatomy notes, crossed out and corrected, a cross section of an arm drawn in the margins. Kihyun stares for a long time, fingers ghosting over dry ink as if he could feel the one who put it there. He sits down at the table then, quill in hand, and the words he put on paper speak of loss and regret. Of joy, too, of the baby he delivered the previous morning and the man with the broken leg who can walk again. Of long walks in the forest and the sky at twilight, and his words are simple and candid but maybe it is better like this, no artifices to hide behind.

He doesn’t get an answer, but he isn’t waiting for one. He keeps writing, small sentences every day. Sometimes there’s a fox, waiting for him in the margins, when he wakes. Sometimes it’s a magpie, some cattle, too, or flowers he remembers seeing from a wicker chair near a window. When Kihyun runs out of paper he always finds more in forgotten drawers, and so he keeps writing, small sentences every day.

 

**9.**

Something changes with the blue moon.

Kihyun wakes in the night with the smell of fire, and something darker, underneath, something of death and shallow graves. His body refuses to move, and he stays helpless, watching the moonlight spill through the window. He knows someone is there, in the corner of his room; fear washes over him like a wave, settling low in his stomach. But he has to look, he has to, and so he glances at the corner of his room, breath stuck in his throat.

There’s something there, small and curled up on itself. Bones piercing burnt flesh, empty sockets staring back with no light; Kihyun would scream if he could, but then, but then he knows, he knows who this is, and it’s a terrible sorrow that pours out of him. The yearning in his chest resolves itself in a force of will as he swallows hard, opening his mouth, words leaving him in an aching breath.

“Come, come here.”

A silent beat where the thing in the corner doesn’t move, perfectly still in the dark; but then it does, slowly, painfully, and when it passes through the moonlight flesh decks the bones again, young and beautiful.

But it doesn’t last, and the thing that sits at the end of Kihyun’s bed is dead and weightless. It has a voice, though, sounding like wind and flames.

“It feels empty,” says the corpse, says the witch, says Yoongi, and Kihyun waited for so long it doesn’t matter, what truth there is to hide, it never did, and his hand shoots from under the cover to grab at the burnt fingers, rough and coarse under his palm.

“When I saw the drawings, I didn’t dare hope but I was so happy, so happy. I thought, even if it’s just this, maybe it can be enough.”

“I liked the stories you wrote.”

“I didn’t want you to forget me. I thought, maybe you wouldn’t, if I did this.”

“I did not. The flowers bloomed, but you weren’t there to see them. So I drew them for you.”

“Thank you.”

“And, you left your notes behind.”

Kihyun smiles, and his eyes bore into the empty orbits staring back at him. He sees something, there, something alight and struggling.

“It would have been too painful, I think, to look at them again.”

“Do you want them back?”

“I want everything back.”

The corpse falls silent, its mouth but a slit in a ruined face. Kihyun keeps on staring, and it isn’t so scary, he thinks, it isn’t so hideous. It’s just what it is, Yoongi’s ravaged soul bared; he’s not a monster, he’s not, and Kihyun tightens his fingers around the witch’s hand.

“I.. I was happy, with you, in that house, and I’m sorry I ruined it. But I don’t… I don’t care, really, what you are. Who you are, though, this I care about immensely, because, because I love it, I love your books and the sketches you drew in my notes, and how awkward you are when you want to talk, how you sleep late in the mornings, and how I wait for the floorboards to creak so I know it’s time for breakfast. I love the wicker chair by the window and the flowers that grow beyond. I love the cane you made me, I use it even if I don’t need it anymore, and I love that you smell of the night, I loved how warm you were when I held you, and–”

And the lips that kiss his are warm and soft, and the hands in his hair pull gently at him, and Kihyun, Kihyun closes his eyes and loses himself against soft skin and warm hands.

 

**10.**

“You can rain hellfire from the skies but you can’t widen a bed?”

“It’s completely different. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe not. Still.”

A laugh, and Kihyun’s gaze falls on the witch at his side, who’s burrowing against him as if he wanted to hide between his ribs. The sun is high in the sky, raining light and warmth upon them through the open window. Were it anyone else Kihyun would have shoved them off long ago. But it’s Yoongi, Yoongi’s soft body and careful hands, drawing patterns on the skin of his back, and so Kihyun does not move, sinking into the mattress, book abandoned at the foot of the bed.

He threads gentle fingers in Yoongi’s hair, pushing them back; it’s time for a haircut again, and his expression shifts as the memory of his betrayal returns from the grave he buried it in.

“You look sour.”

“That’s just my face.”

“It’s not. I watch you a lot.”

“Scary.”

The witch snorts, and Kihyun can only stare, incessantly amazed at the change that arose in Yoongi as days went by. More walls to crumble once trust was regained, and it is his turn, now, to stare in wonderment as Yoongi laughs. A wave of deep affection sends him crashing against Yoongi, cradling his body in his arms, against his chest, and the laughter subside as the witch settles with a sigh.

“What is it, suddenly?”

“Nothing.”

A low hum, Yoongi nodding on a yawn, and Kihyun tightens his hold, hiding his face in the witch’s wild hair. The witch still smells of the night, fire and rain treading on his soft skin. There is still no mirrors, in the house, glimpses of charred skin and empty eyes reflected in the windows at night, but Kihyun doesn’t mind.

Kihyun doesn’t mind, as there is unknown words in leather-bound books and crudely sewn parchments, pots of jam and anatomic sketches drawn in their too-small margins. There is embarrassed conversations and tentative touches, creaking floorboards and a cane carve of wonder he stills uses though he doesn’t need it.

He doesn’t mind, he has the night in his arms and it is gentle and kind.


End file.
